


Will you Still Love me Tomorrow

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Prompt Fic, kinda angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock did leave for his six month mission, but he did return, and John was there waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will you Still Love me Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the prompt to write something inspired by the song Will you Still Love me Tomorrow by the Shirelles (Which can be found here- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbxxkwBQk_o) from the Sherlock Fanfiction Writers group (which can be found here- https://plus.google.com/u/0/communities/107879570588640947557)

They had stood there on the tarmac, and left everything unspoken that should have been said out loud. For seven months Sherlock survived with the guilt and the heart break that he could not look into John Watson's eyes, for the second time, and tell him that he loved him. He survived on the pain of having left him again with no promise, no real hope of every coming back to him. He survived on that handshake that should have been so much more.

Sherlock wasn't expected to return from his exile, at least not expected to return home in anything less than a body bag, but as usual, Sherlock did things his own way, and once again he was standing face to face with John on an airport tarmac, extending his hand to clasp once again with the other man's, and not speaking the words that they both wanted to say; that they both wanted to hear.

John rode in the car with Sherlock back to Baker Street, and Sherlock asked the questions he thought were expected of him; how is _Mary, how is the child?_ He received the answers he had been expecting; _Mary is fine_ (short, curt and emotionless), _Olivia is wonderful; crawling, babbling; laughing_ (bright, affective, and proud). _How are you, John?_ A soft smile, almost coy; almost shy, but not unsure in the least crossed John's face. _Better now that you're here with me_ , and Sherlock nodded in silent agreement.

 Once home, Sherlock showered, shaved, and wrapped himself in a dressing gown. He looked into the mirror of the bathroom, trying to find himself now that he was clean, now that he was home, but he still only saw the bags of exhaustion underneath his eyes, the scratches across his cheeks; the bruises around his neck. He was not the man he had once known, hadn't been for much longer than his seven month absence.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock focused his eyes to the sound of his name, and saw John in the mirror behind him, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door and holding a mug of tea in his hands.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

"I'm fine."

John nodded, always accepting Sherlock's words so easily, even what he didn't believe them. Sherlock turned to face John, and take the tea held out for him.

The two men sat in their chairs, both wanting to speak, but unable to make their voices cut through the tension that had been following them like the heavy clouds rolling in through the east. Even if they could form the words, could make them be heard, what would it matter anyhow?

Too much time.

Too many missed opportunities.

 An hour passed between them of silent glances and aborted thoughts. Sherlock got up from the chair, in need of tea, in need of space. He filled the kettle, dropped new bags into two new cups, and waited for the boil. He could hear John shuffling in the other room; getting up from his chair, and coming into the kitchen, standing close, and staring at the kettle as intently as Sherlock.

"Are we going to do this all night?" John asked.

"Neither one of us is good with expressing our feelings."

John laughed, "you're right, there."

"And I'm not entirely sure what you want to hear from me."

"The truth, Sherlock."

They both looked away from the now rolling water inside the glass kettle, and found each other's face. Sherlock studied the wrinkles around John's eyes; punctuation to the question hiding there. _Do you love me, can you love me, will you love me?_

Sherlock's answer, of course, was yes; John had to be able to see it in the way Sherlock's hand trembled at his side, the way he kept letting his bottom lip slide between his teeth.

 "John, I-" Sherlock started to say something, though he had no idea what, but it didn't seem to matter much, because John's hands were on the back of Sherlock's head, and his lips against Sherlock's lips, saying all those things they couldn't keep hidden anymore. _I need you, I've always needed you, and I want you; God, how I want you; every piece of you, from the inside out_.

And Sherlock wordlessly reciprocated the sentiment, wrapping his arms around John's waist, pulling him closer to his own body, _yes, you can have me; I need you to have me; want to belong to you._

Then, John dared, as their lips parted for an intake of breath, to speak, "I love you." He said, almost as a whisper, pushing the words into Sherlock's mouth on the trail of his breath. Sherlock nearly returned the words; they had been sitting in his heart for so long, trying to escape, but always being pushed back down, but he still, as he had been for years was too afraid.

"You're experiencing an onslaught of emotion due to seeing me again; I know, because I'm experiencing the same. You won't love me in the morning."

John closed the gap between them, stiffened his stance, and lifted his chin in an effort to stand up to Sherlock's height, "I will." He said, "Because I have loved you every day since I followed you up that staircase and into this flat."

Sherlock stared down at him, looking for faulter, but there was none. Did it matter, truly, if John woke in the morning and decided he didn't love him after all? Did it matter, if right now he was claiming love, offering love? Sherlock tipped his head down, slowly to feel John's lips on him again. It seemed that tomorrow did not matter; only tonight- only now.

It was not a gentle kiss, but rather it was a crashing of mouths; the culmination of desire pouring out of their souls and into one another. Sherlock pulled at John to bring him down the hallway and into his bedroom. Sherlock made quick notice, as he laid down against the mattress that he hadn't been comfortable in his bed for a long time, but the thought quickly vanished when he lost contact with John's lips, and looked up to see the man above him; one leg on either side of Sherlock, fingers pulling at the hem of his jumper; up and up until his back was arched backwards and the skin of his torso and chest was exposed. Sherlock sat up, a bit awkward underneath John's weight, and slid his hands along that skin; running from John's soft waist along the curve of his sides and his spine, and then engulfed the blades of his shoulders, flexing; quivering underneath Sherlock's touch. John's eyes had been closed, but they opened as he reached out to untie the silk ribbon of Sherlock's dressing gown, and slip underneath his t-shirt.

Sherlock tensed underneath his touch, suddenly very aware of every scar that was hidden there. He watched John's eyes flicker between sadness and concern as his fingers brushed over each and every blemish, and finally flash to anger once he had divested Sherlock of his shirt and was able to see what he had been feeling.

"Hey-" John said, quietly. He must have noticed the uncertainty in Sherlock. "You aren’t the only one. I've got scars too."

He took one of Sherlock's arms, running it away from its fifth placement on John's waist, and settled the Palm of Sherlock's hand over the mangled scar of his shoulder.

"No. I suppose I'm not."

They stared at each other in the darkness; the only light coming in from the streetlights outside where it had started to rain, and the wind was hollowing against the alcove of the alley behind them. Then John leaned forward, pushing Sherlock down against the mattress once again. John laid the expanse of his body across Sherlock, and they gently, lazily kissed each other, hands roaming over the other. It was too right, had been waiting to happen for too long that Sherlock didn't even care if that moment was all that he got; he didn't care what tomorrow was going to bring him, because right then, John was loving him, and letting Sherlock love him back.

 Gentle had once again given way to hard and desperate; the remaining fabrics between them had been discarded. They were naked and they were frantic for one another; kissing, touching; tasting. Their heavy breaths and their moans mingled with the sounds of the churning storm outside; gaining momentum as if it were feeding off the energy the two men were creating inside the space of Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock begged, with nothing more than a whimper and a light in his eye for John to be inside him; for Sherlock to be able to surround and engulf him- to consume John until they were one in the same, and John did so; brought them together as Sherlock always knew that they should be.

"I love you, Sherlock." John said. "If you know anything, for the rest of your life; know that I love you."

Sherlock grinned, and arched his back off from the bed, pushing himself deeper against John, who returned with a cry of ecstasy.

"I love you, John." Sherlock whispered into the cry, just loud enough for the words to be carried back to John’s ears.

_Today. Tomorrow. Always._


End file.
